I HAVE mentioned my great-aunt, who was a slave in Dr. Flint's family,
and who had been my refuge during the shameful persecutions I suffered
from him. This aunt had been married at twenty years of age; that is,
as far as slaves can marry. She had the consent of her master and mistress,
and a clergyman performed the ceremony. But it was a mere form, without
any legal value. Her master or mistress could annul it any day they
pleased. She had always slept on the floor in the entry, near Mrs. Flint's
chamber door, that she might be within call. When she was married, she
was told she might have the use of a small room in an outhouse. Her
mother and her husband furnished it. He was a seafaring man, and was
allowed to sleep there when he was at home. But on the wedding evening,
the bride was ordered to her old post on the entry floor.

Mrs. Flint, at that time, had no children; but she was expecting to
be a mother, and if she should want a drink of water in the night, what
could she do without her slave to bring it? So my aunt was compelled
to lie at her door, until one midnight she was forced to leave, to give
premature birth to a child. In a fortnight she was required to resume
her place on the entry floor, because Mrs. Flint's babe needed her attentions.
She kept her station there through summer and winter, until she had
given premature birth to six children; and all the while she was employed
as night-nurse to Mrs. Flint's children. Finally, toiling all day, and
being deprived of rest at night, completely broke down her constitution,
and Dr. Flint declared it was impossible she could ever become the mother
of a living child. The fear of losing so valuable a servant by death,
now induced them to allow her to sleep in her little room in the out-house,
except when there was sickness in the family. She afterwards had two
feeble babes, one of whom died in a few days, and the other in four
weeks. I well remember her patient sorrow as she held the last dead
baby in her arms. "I wish it could have lived," she said; "it is not
the will of God that any of my children should live. But I will try
to be fit to meet their little spirits in heaven."

Aunt Nancy was housekeeper and waiting-maid in Dr. Flint's family.
Indeed, she was the factotum of the
household. Nothing went on well without her. She was my mother's twin
sister, and, as far as was in her power, she supplied a mother's place
to us orphans. I slept with her all the time I lived in my old master's
house, and the bond between us was very strong. When my friends tried
to discourage me from running away, she always encouraged me. When they
thought I had better return and ask my master's pardon, because there
was no possibility of escape, she sent me word never to yield. She said
if I persevered I might, perhaps, gain the freedom of my children; and
even if I perished in doing it, that was better than to leave them to
groan under the same persecutions that had blighted my own life. After
I was shut up in my dark cell, she stole away, whenever she could, to
bring me the news and say something cheering. How often did I kneel
down to listen to her words of consolation, whispered through a crack!
"I am old, and have not long to live," she used to say; "and I could
die happy if I could only see you and the children free. You must pray
to God, Linda, as I do for you, that he will lead you out of this darkness.
" I would beg her not to worry herself on my account; that there was
an end of all suffering sooner or later, and that whether I lived in
chains or in freedom, I should always remember her as the good friend
who had been the comfort of my life. A word from her always strengthened
me; and not me only. The whole family relied upon her judgment, and
were guided by her advice.

I had been in my cell six years when my grandmother was summoned to
the bedside of this, her last remaining daughter. She was very ill,
and they said she would die. Grandmother had not entered Dr. Flint's
house for several years. They had treated her cruelly, but she thought
nothing of that now. She was grateful for permission to watch by the
death-bed of her child. They had always been devoted to each other;
and now they sat looking into each other's eyes, longing to speak of
the secret that had weighed so much on the hearts of both. My aunt had
been stricken with paralysis. She lived but two days, and the last day
she was speechless. Before she lost the power of utterance, she told
her mother not to grieve if she could not speak to her; that she would
try to hold up her hand, to let her know that all was well with her.
Even the hard-hearted doctor was a little softened when he saw the dying
woman try to smile on the aged mother, who was kneeling by her side.
His eyes moistened for a moment, as he said she had always been a faithful
servant, and they should never be able to supply her place. Mrs. Flint
took to her bed, quite overcome by the shock. While my grandmother sat
alone with the dead, the doctor came in, leading his youngest son, who
had always been a great pet with aunt Nancy, and was much attached to
her. "Martha," said he, "aunt Nancy loved this child, and when he comes
where you are, I hope you will be kind to him, for her sake." She replied,
"Your wife was my foster-child, Dr. Flint, the foster-sister of my poor
Nancy, and you little know me if you think I can feel any thing but
good will for her children. "

"I wish the past could be forgotten, and that we might never think
of it," said he; "and that Linda would come to supply her aunt's place.
She would be worth more to us than all the money that could be paid
for her. I wish it for your sake also, Martha. Now that Nancy is taken
away from you, she would be a great comfort to your old age."

He knew he was touching a tender chord. Almost choking with grief,
my grandmother replied, "It was not I that drove Linda away. My grandchildren
are gone; and of my nine children only one is left. God help me!"

To me, the death of this kind relative was an inexpressible sorrow.
I knew that she had been slowly murdered; and I felt that my troubles
had helped to finish the work. After I heard of her illness, I listened
constantly to hear what news was brought from the great house; and the
thought that I could not go to her made me utterly miserable. At last,
as uncle Phillip came into the house, I heard some one inquire, "How
is she?" and he answered, "She is dead." My little cell seemed whirling
round, and I knew nothing more till I opened my eyes and found uncle
Phillip bending over me. I had no need to ask any questions. He whispered,
"Linda, she died happy." I could not weep. My fixed gaze troubled him.
"Don't look so," he said. "Don't add to my poor mother's trouble. Remember
how much she has to bear, and that we ought to do all we can to comfort
her." Ah, yes, that blessed old grandmother, who for seventy-three years
had borne the pelting storms of a slave-mother's life. She did indeed
need consolation!

Mrs. Flint had rendered her poor foster-sister
childless, apparently without any compunction; and with cruel selfishness had
ruined her health by years of incessant,
unrequited toil, and broken rest.
But now she became very sentimental. I suppose she thought it would
be a beautiful illustration of the attachment existing between slaveholder
and slave, if the body of her old worn-out servant was buried at her
feet. She sent for the clergyman and asked if he had any objection to
burying aunt Nancy in the doctor's family burial-place. No colored person
had ever been allowed interment in the white people's burying-ground,
and the minister knew that all the deceased of our family reposed together
in the old graveyard of the slaves. He therefore replied, "I have no
objection to complying with your wish; but perhaps aunt Nancy's mother
may have some choice as to where her remains shall be deposited."

It had never occurred to Mrs. Flint that slaves could have any feelings.
When my grandmother was consulted, she at once said she wanted Nancy
to lie with all the rest of her family, and where her own old body would
be buried. Mrs. Flint graciously complied with her wish, though she
said it was painful to her to have Nancy buried away from her. She might
have added with touching pathos, "I
was so long used to sleep with her lying near me, on the entry floor."

My uncle Phillip asked permission to bury his sister at his own expense;
and slaveholders are always ready to grant such favors to slaves and
their relatives. The arrangements were very plain, but perfectly respectable.
She was buried on the Sabbath, and Mrs. Flint's minister read the funeral
service. There was a large concourse of colored people, bond and free,
and a few white persons who had always been friendly to our family.
Dr. Flint's carriage was in the procession; and when the body was deposited
in its humble resting place, the mistress dropped a tear, and returned
to her carriage, probably thinking she had performed her duty nobly.

It was talked of by the slaves as a mighty grand funeral. Northern
travellers, passing through the place, might have described this tribute
of respect to the humble dead as a beautiful feature in the "patriarchal
institution;" a touching proof of the attachment between slaveholders
and their servants; and tenderhearted Mrs. Flint would have confirmed
this impression, with handkerchief at her eyes. We could have told them
a different story. We could have given them a chapter of wrongs and
sufferings, that would have touched their hearts, if they had any hearts
to feel for the colored people. We could have told them how the poor
old slave-mother had toiled, year after year, to earn eight hundred
dollars to buy her son Philip’s right to his own earnings; and
how that same Phillip paid the expenses of the funeral, which they regarded
as doing so much credit to the master. We could also have told them
of a poor, blighted young creature, shut up in a living grave for years,
to avoid the tortures that would be inflicted on her, if she ventured
to come out and look on the face of her departed friend.

All this, and much more, I thought of, as I sat at my loophole [peephole],
waiting for the family to return from the grave; sometimes weeping,
sometimes falling asleep, dreaming strange dreams of the dead and the
living.

It was sad to witness the grief of my bereaved grandmother. She had
always been strong to bear, and now, as ever, religious faith supported
her. But her dark life had become still darker, and age and trouble
were leaving deep traces on her withered face. She had four places to
knock for me to come to the trap-door, and each place had a different
meaning. She now came oftener than she had done, and talked to me of
her dead daughter, while tears trickled slowly down her furrowed cheeks.
I said all I could to comfort her; but it was a sad reflection, that
instead of being able to help her, I was a constant source of anxiety
and trouble. The poor old back was fitted to its burden. It bent under
it, but did not break.